


interlude i

by XellyChan



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XellyChan/pseuds/XellyChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You okay, Miles asks.</p><p>mmrmhff, Waylon replies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	interlude i

**Author's Note:**

> i still have no idea

You okay, Miles asks.

mmrmhff, Waylon replies. 

They're in a big city for once. People and cars and noise and Waylon gets sick all over himself in a dirty 7/11 bathroom stall. Miles wrinkles his nose, tries not to smell sour bile or piss and too strong lemon glade air freshener.

I hate this, Waylon says. At least Miles thinks that's what he says through the heaving and tears and snot. Miles pats his back in sympathy. Waylon gives a belch-sob, vomit coming anew in a continuous stream

You're okay, Miles concludes. A groan is his only answer. He takes it as agreement.

Later, when Waylon is washed up and most of the puke staining his shirt has been dabbed away, Miles buys him a juice. It's acidic, vaguely cherry-ish in flavor, but it doesn't make his stomach turn. The cold feels good against his cheek and all he really wants to do is sleep, but the check in time is still hours away, the traffic is shit here too, so he can't even nap in the jeep.

Miles ruffles Waylon's hair, gets his clunky watch snagged in a lock of curly brown hair. Tears burn at Waylon's already sore eyes. Miles curses and apologizes, chomping down on an unlit cigarette as he works the hair loose from the metal clasp. 

The sky is overcast and Miles can smell rain. They're somewhere up north in the middle of the fall, so the heat isn't something he has to worry about right now with Waylon the way he is. 

Today is a Bad Day, Miles decides. Haven't had one for a weeks. Figures they were overdue for one anyway, pulls Waylon closer to his side, tucks the smaller man under the open side of his jacket. There are grumbles, at first, but they trail off and Waylon is a heavy, exhausted weight. His blood shot eyes are glassy, droopy. His hands are clutched childlike around the juice bottle, taking tiny sips with wind chapped lips. Miles pulls him even closer under the guise of lighting his cigarette. He can feel the tiny jitters wracking Waylon's body. 

The end of the cigarette catches, and Miles relaxes his hold, breathes the smoke in, sighs it out. Pats Waylon's hip. Come on, time to go. He says.

I'm tired, Waylon says back, voice wispy and painful sounding. How far did we park the jeep again?

Not far, Miles tells him when in reality he has no fucking clue. Just a vague idea of the direction to go. Thinks Waylon probably knows that already, just placing blind faith in Miles' frankly incapable hands. 

Alley-oop, off they go. Waylon still tucked firmly against Miles' side, cigarette smoke sweet smelling and soothing the pounding in his head. Occasionally his dragging foot steps get tangled in Miles' relaxed saunter and his stomach sways dangerously. For the most part the walk is uneventful, Miles artfully navigating them through the worst of the crowds, Waylon tamping down the claustrophobia. They make it to the jeep sooner than Miles would have guessed, but that's good. Real good. 

He smiles and makes to crack a joke, but Waylon his slumped against the door, pressing his forehead to the cool glass and looking about ready to pass out.  
On with it, Waylon pleads/snaps.

Yes master, shoots back Miles without any edge, unlocks the doors, and pulls  
open the back seat door. He helps Waylon inside, shrugging off his jacket so he call ball it up to be used as a creaky pillow. 

Thank you, Waylon whispers, face red and splotchy and sick as he curls up, huddling into the back of the seat. He sniffs like he wants to cry.

Miles' chest gives a funny flutter, he shrugs. No problem. 

Gets in the driver's seat and turns the key, feels the jeep pur to life. Runs his palms over the steering wheel and pulls out of the too small parking space next to the busy street. Lowers the radio into a until the station sounds indistinct and buzzy in the door speakers. He doesn't know where he's driving really, doesn't know where he can, the streets busy and pressed bumper to bumper at a red light. Thinks about the spacious mall parking lot the passed on their way in. Pulls and illegal u-turn Waylon will probably yell at him for later.

Try not to get sick in here, okay? Miles warns without any real meaning.

'Kay, Waylon slurs.

Miles drives, aimless. Static in the jeep and Waylon’s soft whimpers in his ears.


End file.
